


Two Weeks Away

by natascha_ronin



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Captain Swan January Joy 2018, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-09 20:04:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13488780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natascha_ronin/pseuds/natascha_ronin
Summary: Emma Swan wanted to get away for a few weeks in January. She found paradise...and more.





	Two Weeks Away

Logan airport is bustling when she walks off the gangway. Weary travelers from the other side of the country trudge through to the baggage claim with laptop bags and neck pillows slung haphazardly over their shoulders. They pass by early-morning travelers sipping coffee and rolling smartly-packed carry-on bags behind them, hair combed and makeup applied; phones and tablets fully-charged. Security stiffly nods, the underpaid gatekeepers coming and going. 

The baggage carousel squeaks out their luggage, an unspoken agreement between the recipients to give each other a bit of space. For some, it’s the final moments of vacation bubble before the real world crashes in; for others, it’s the beginning of a winter vacation of skiing and off-season sightseeing to the East Coast. 

Emma Swan is in the former of the two, headphones still playing a soft reggae to keep her in the vacation for just a few minutes longer. She’s hoping her luggage is first, or last, just anything to either shove her along or hold her here. The airport is always in-between: the mountains or the plains, the snow or the beach, the sunrise or sunset, the world or home. International travel is a necessary evil of iffy customer service, security, bad food, canned air, and an aching ass and neck. At least, it is on her budget.

_But, oh, what waits on the other side._

She shakes herself awake as her large rolling duffel comes sliding onto the conveyer. It’s upside down, airline tags (heavy _and_ fragile) dangling off of the handles as she pulls and hoists the bag down to the floor. She checks the outside of the bag for any liquid that might have leaked out, feeling around, and finds the contents hopefully still intact. It rolls heavily behind her on the floor and outside to where she waits for the shuttle home. 

She chides the driver with a, “Be careful!” as he puts her luggage in the back of the passenger van. He zips down 93 towards Quincy, and she takes in the pre-dawn sky and traffic that seems to never stop. She passes the city and industrial buildings that still look the same as she left them, jet lag beginning its inevitable pull on the last vestiges of her strength. 

At her apartment, she’s grateful for the splurge of paying someone other than the Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority to get her home. She tips the driver while he carefully sets her luggage down inside her front door, kicks off her boots and leaves a trail of clothes all the way to her bedroom. Her phone is in her jacket, the charger in her carry-on, her toiletries are all packed, and she barely cares that her teeth haven’t been clean since LAX. She crawls into bed and sinks into familiar sheets, eyes closing, breath slowing, heart aching, and thoughts drifting an entire continent and ocean away. 

 

_Two weeks earlier…_

Emma was excited for what was sure to be the first in a lifetime opportunity to travel, and she had done it entirely on her own, apart from having a friend drop her off at the airport. She queued up her newly-made travel playlist in Mary-Margaret’s car while she carefully navigated the Newport Ave Extension. 

Mary-Margaret side-eyed her. “You’ve got your emergency contact plugged into your phone as ‘emergency contact’ and not ‘I-C-E’, right?” 

Emma sighed. “Yes, mom.” They’d been over this a few times. 

“You’ve got your passport in an RFID-blocking case?”

“Uh-huh.” 

Leo gurgled in the back seat. Emma reached back and tickled his neck until he giggled. 

“And you’ve got wi-fi at this place?”

“Yup.”

Mary-Margaret let out a deep breath. “Okay. You will message me when you get in, right?”

“No problem.”

“You’ve got bug spray and really good sunscreen?”

“Two bottles of each.”

“Drive slowly on the other side of the road.”

“I’m taking the bus, remember?”

Mary-Margaret inhaled deeply and clutched the steering wheel. They pulled up onto the curb at the airport terminal and she stopped, turning toward Emma. “You are most likely the most precious person in the world to me, Emma Swan, and I need you to have so much fun you can’t stand it, and take way too many pictures, and drink and eat good food,” she leaned over the console and clutched Emma tightly, “and please, please, please take good care of my best friend.”

“You got it.”

“I know my husband already gave you the overprotective dad speech, so I’ll spare you, but I’m a worrier, Emma. That’s just me.” She leaned back and smiled brightly. “I know you’re gonna have fun, and when you come home I want to hear all about it.” She shook Emma’s shoulders and let go.

A car honked behind her and Mary Margaret gestured rudely. 

“I guess that’s my cue.” Emma walked around the back of the jeep and opened the hatch, pulling out her half-empty duffel bag and carry-on bag. She closed the trunk and walked around to the open passenger door to close it. “I’ll message you when I’m at the house. You’ve got the woman from AirBnB’s contact info?”

Mary-Margaret nodded. “Don’t forget my seashell.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” She closed the door and waved goodbye as her best friend pulled away from the curb and out into traffic. She shivered in her leather jacket as she turned to walk into the airport.

The flight to Los Angeles was just a commuter flight with a stopover in Dallas. She lingered during the long wait for her flight out of LAX, grabbing a bite to eat and window shopping at the mall inside the international terminal. She couldn’t afford the luxurious Hermes and Burberry duty free shops, but she treated herself to a few books from Hudson News, got currency for her destination, and bought her AirBnB host a box of truffles from See’s Candies. 

About an hour from her departure time, she made her way over to the gate to switch her tickets over and wait for boarding. As she stood in front of the window next to the gate, she saw the large plane make its way towards her. The jet bridge extended to the door, but just before it closed in, she pulled out her phone and snapped a picture of the side of the airplane and sent it to Mary Margaret and David with a message: 

_Turning off my phone. I’ll message you from Fiji when I get to the house. – Emma_

The flight to Nadi seemed impossibly short. Emma was used to sleeping in strange places: different beds in each foster home growing up, a new destination wherever she and Neal parked the bug, hotel rooms, changing cells in juvenile detention. Unsurprisingly, she nodded off after a glass of wine and a terrible version of a King Arthur movie. She woke up with an ache in her hips and a strain in her neck just as the flight attendants were beginning to offer breakfast service. She sipped a cup of coffee and looked across the aisle at daybreak, nibbling on a cold blueberry muffin while she filled out her customs form. 

If she was bleary upon arrival, a quick glance around after she walked off the plane was enough to wake her up. Mountains and palm trees surrounded her. Daybreak was on one side; the moon fading on the other. The air was warm but just a little windy. She shrugged her jacket off and hung it over her bag as she powered on her phone, making sure it was still in airplane mode. She snapped a picture of the wing of the plane, mountains and mist and moon hanging in the background. Other passengers paused, too, taking in the change in the atmosphere and pulling out cameras and phones. 

The customs line loomed inside, so she walked from the tarmac into the terminal, following other passengers along the hallways. She heard the music before she saw them – three Fijian men stood just behind a pillar next to the customs line, singing and playing their guitars, shouting “Bula!” (the Fijian word for ‘hello’) in between the verses. Similar greetings followed her all the way through the airport and out to the bus that waited to take her to her lodgings. 

Emma was a cynical woman; she endured a certain amount of sympathy from her friends and coworkers for being unmoved by sentiment or what passed in the U.S. for courtesy. However, she couldn’t stop the smile from spreading on her face when she saw how friendly and warm the Fijian people were. Every town they passed through on the way to Pacific Harbour was full of people waving from the side of the road, smiling and calling out greetings. There was livestock wandering along the side of the road, and they had to stop once or twice to let a few cows cross. 

The windows of the bus were open, but Emma was starting to sweat in the heat. She peeled her sweater off and plucked at her tank top. On her right, she saw the coastline glittering in the sun. The island rose up above the lagoon, something she’d only ever dreamt about or seen in pictures. She didn’t dare close her eyes. Every mountain, every palm tree, every friendly face, the ocean…she wanted to soak it all in. She pulled out her phone and took a few minutes of video. Even the small mundane things felt big to her somehow. 

The bus let Emma and a few other carless passengers off at a resort across the road from the neighborhood she was staying in. As she pulled her duffel behind her down the gravel road, she noticed a few cars with men standing around and talking. She figured, with the reputation of hospitality in Fiji, she’d either be in for a rude awakening or be pleasantly surprised if she asked the locals for directions. 

“Hi, guys!” She waved, letting go of the handle of her duffel bag. “I’m looking for Sevua Circle. Any of you heard of it around here?”

One of them piped up with a smile. “Yes!” He pointed to the road in front of her. “Sevua Circle is the third road on the left. Do you need a ride?”

Emma smiled. “Uh, no. I’ve got it.”

He pursed his lips. “Hey, it’s your first day here, yeah? You can’t come to my country and walk in this heat. Hop in.” He stuck his thumb at the car behind him. “No charge.”

She looked at the car with an official-looking sticker on the windshield.

_Oh. He was a cab driver._

“Sure, but I can pay you.”

He picked up her bag and tossed it in the trunk like it weighed nothing. “No worries. No charge.” He opened the passenger door for her. “Besides, I’m not doing anything anyway.”

Peter drove her into the small neighborhood (she learned his name from the badge hanging from the rear-view mirror). He told her a quick history on the area. Originally a resort neighborhood, the villas in Pacific Harbour had been bought out by individuals and either turned into private vacation or retirement homes, or rented out. Emma’s villa was small in comparison to the homes she saw, but the rent was cheaper than the resorts in the area, and the owner had a golf cart at her disposal as a part of the fee. As they pulled up in front of the house, she spotted a small SUV in the driveway. 

A petite brunette walked out, smiling, a scruffy little dog on her heels. 

Emma got out of the car and Peter pulled her bags out. He took them in the house. 

The brunette shook her hand. “You must Emma Swan. Your profile picture doesn’t do you justice.” She had an Australian accent.

Emma tucked a strand of hair behind her head. “And you must be Belle. Pleasure to meet you.”

Peter walked past them. “Thanks again, Peter! Are you sure I can’t pay you something?”

He shook his head. “Happy to help.” He smiled and waved. “Enjoy your stay here.”

Belle led Emma through the outside gate and into the house. The floors were covered in brown Spanish tile, with cream-colored stucco walls, and large beams crossing the vaulted ceilings and supporting the structure. 

Belle was talking about the history of the villa; how she and her husband purchased it from a couple a few years ago and spent time doing restorations and finding furniture to match. 

“This is my favorite bit.” Belle said, leading her into the master bedroom. She opened the door to the bathroom. “I had this bathtub brought in from Sydney.”

It was huge. The pictures on AirBnB could hardly do justice to the house, and the lovely stand-alone bath was no exception. 

“I brought tealight candles especially for this bathtub.” 

“Well, if you didn’t, I have candles in the caddy on top of the liquor cabinet.”

“Liquor cabinet?” Emma whistled. “Boy, you really pull out all the stops.”

Belle laughed, and pulled her hand. “C’mon and see the pool in the garden, then I’ll show you the fridge with beer and breakfast treats and you can really ooh and aah.”

After Belle left, Emma sent a quick message to Mary-Margaret, then unpacked and put on one of the five bathing suits she bought for the trip. She may have gone a little overboard, but she didn’t think she’d be going to Fiji again anytime soon, so she decided to treat herself to some fun bikinis from Target. Besides, they were on clearance before Christmas.

The pool was small, but perfect for an afternoon dip, refreshing her so she could continue the day without falling asleep and getting on the wrong schedule. After a rinse in the second bathroom under the luxurious rainfall shower head, she dressed for dinner and walked into town. 

The small town center boasted several touristy restaurants, some shops, and even a grocery store. There were a lot of people browsing around the shops, and quite a few people eating dinner outside, sitting and talking. She picked a place on the edge of the cluster of buildings and walked inside, music from a live band playing somewhere in the back. 

A woman with a name tag and a lovely smile showed her to the bar area, where there was indeed a live band playing reggae in a corner of the room. Several people were dancing and standing around in the middle, and a few people were talking and sitting at the bar. She went to the bar.

“Bula!” The bartender greeted. “What can I get for you?”

Emma took a deep breath. “How about a local beer.”

“Fiji bitter alright?”

“Oh, I don’t like bitter beer.”

Someone spoke behind her. “Oh, it’s not bitter. In fact, it’s quite lovely, especially when Marika here actually serves it cold.” The bartender winked at her and laughed.

She turned around. The man smiled. 

People often spoke of moments that stood out in time. The moment he smiled at her, with arresting blue eyes, dark hair, and a devilish smile, Emma knew she was in trouble. 

She licked her lips. His eyes followed. 

Emma turned her head towards the bartender, never taking her eyes off of the stranger in front of her. “I’ll take two, then. One for me, and one for …” she nodded to blue eyes, bula shirt unbuttoned and a healthy swath of chest hair. 

“Killian Jones.” He inclined his head, his smile softer and his eyes more mischievous. “And you are?”

She extended her hand. “Emma Swan. So nice to meet you, Mister Jones.”

He took it and rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. “Likewise.”

She would normally have never given a man her full name. Skips never got her name before, and even after her new job, one-nighters were as far as she went so last names were less messy. But there was something intriguing in his smile, disarming eyes, and week-old scruff that had her throwing caution to the trade winds.

“So, Swan, what brings you here?” He asked once their drinks arrived.

“Pleasure.” She shrugged. “I saved up. You?”

He looked off in the distance. “I come here every few years for a month or so on holiday. I’ve a friend in the Yasawas who loans me his boat when I’m in.”

She whistled. “I could use a friend like that.” 

“Well, to be fair, I loan him mine when he visits me.”

He had a boat. He had friends with boats. He was likely a bit out of her league, but he wasn’t complaining. 

“I’ll have to make some friends here, then.”

He tipped his beer to her. “I’ll drink to that. How long are you here for?”

“Two weeks. I just got in.” Just got in and she was chatting up a handsome guy with a boat and an Omega watch on his one hand. The other hand, she noticed, was a prosthetic, and a very lifelike one at that. “The weather’s a hell of a lot better here than it is at home.”

“And where’s that?” He asked, unassuming. “Home?”

_Nowhere. Everywhere. Anywhere. Here, at the moment._

“New England. Boston.” It was a big city. A girl still had to play it safe.

He raised his eyebrows. “Maine.”

Killian had a lovely English accent and an Irish name. “What?”

He blinked. “Aye. I own a lighthouse in a little town called Storybrooke. It’s on the coast up by Portland.”

_Huh. A lighthouse keeper._

“No wonder you escape here every few years.” She shook her head and took a drink of beer. It really was good, and the little bottles reminded her of Red Stripe. “The winters there are brutal.”

“Have you ever been up there?”

_Yeah. Lived in a few foster homes there._ “A few times. No further than Kennebunkport.” 

“The winters are quite harsh, but summers are lovely. Nothing like here, though.”

Emma looked around her. People talking, dancing, _happy_. “No, I’ve never been anywhere like this.” 

He looked into her eyes. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah, it is.”

He scratched behind his ear nervously. “So, what do you do?”

She perked up. “I work in security.” She scratched at the label on her beer bottle. “I used to do bail bonds and private investigating, but I got tired of chasing people down and went for something with more normal hours.” She’d worked in personnel security for a few years, and the pay was only a little better, but it was consistent. 

“Less hazardous, I hope?”

“Exactly. I do some of the same stuff, just at a desk.” 

“You’re a tough lass.”

“Thanks for noticing.” She simpered. 

They talked and ate, drank, and when she loosened her limbs a little, they danced. She couldn’t quite place the scent of his cologne, as he brushed his nose along her neck and they swayed to the music. Killian danced to the rhythm of reggae like he’d walked off the set of _Cocktail_ , and Emma found herself getting caught up in the music and the gentle vibe of the island. 

Later, they leaned against the outside of the building, waiting for Emma’s cab to take her home. (Killian insisted on calling since she wouldn’t let him drive her). Emma hummed along with the band playing inside. She was tired from the flight and the beer was making her sleepy. 

“You like reggae?”

“Not usually, no, but here it kind of fits.” She shook her head. “Ska really kind of ruined it for me.”

He made a face. “Really? I rather liked it.”

“Seriously? You don’t look like a ska kind of guy.” 

“Oh, no?” He quirked an eyebrow. “What kind of guy do I look like?”

“Outside of here? The Stones, maybe U2…and you hate The Beatles.”

He shrugged. “That’s quite accurate. Also, The Cure.”

She snickered. “What else do you like?” She turned to him. Bolder.

“I like dancing with you, Swan.” 

Emma nodded in encouragement and moved closer.

“I like talking to you, too.” He took her hand in his.

She licked her lips and looked at his.

He whispered, “I’d like to kiss you,” before tilting his head and catching her nod halfway. 

Emma hadn’t been to the beach yet, but she imagined waves pulling would feel much like his kiss. It wasn’t chaste, but it wasn’t overly passionate. His lips met hers with the right amount of pressure, opening to brush his tongue against hers. She noticed her grip on his hand was tight, and his breath was warm. 

When the car hire pulled up, they broke apart and promised to meet up again at the same spot. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Swan.” 

“Goodnight, Killian.”

When she got back to the villa, she undressed, still humming the reggae song, and fell into bed, her last thoughts of blue eyes and dark hair, tan skin and a smile that would surely do her in.

 

_Present Day_

Emma wakes up at three o’clock in the afternoon, groggy and dreaming of the ocean rocking her. She sweeps her palm across her face and stands to go to the shower on wobbly legs. It’s freezing cold in her apartment and it smells musty, the water taking ages to heat up because it’s been two weeks since she’s used her hot water heater. She hops over to the thermostat wrapped in a blanket and cranks it up to seventy degrees. 

After a shower and black coffee, she dresses in some old sweats, surveying the contents of her fridge and contemplating takeout. She spies her bag by the door, a trail of clothes and keys from there to the bedroom. 

_Might as well get it over with._

She unzips the duffel, ripping off luggage tags and wadding them up with one hand while the other pulls out clothes, the scent of laundry detergent wafting up from her neatly-folded, clean clothes. _He made them stack and fold so neatly_. She places them gingerly on the floor, moving on to the pareos she purchased, the souvenirs for her friends. At the bottom of the top compartment, nestled between her big straw hat and his hooded sweatshirt, lay two bubble-wrapped packages. 

She sets everything aside, pulling them out, testing the sound of the contents for broken glass. She can’t really think about them right now, so she places them on her small kitchen table and goes back to her clothes. She pulls out her shoes, sand falling onto the carpet. She pours a little into her hand from her espadrilles, and smiles, remembering when she carried them on walks down the beach.  
If she closes her eyes and focuses, she can still feel the shore under her feet. 

_Then_

Emma woke up at sunrise the next morning, birds chirping and wind chimes singing. 

_I’m in Fiji_ , she thought with a smile.

Her bedroom had direct access to the deck in the back yard, so she walked out the door and stood still, watching the sunrise over the palm and fruit trees. She tried to knock a pawpaw out of a tree with a stick, but decided that it was better to eat the fruit on the table for breakfast. 

She shared it with the ants. 

They were impossible to get out of the house, Belle had said, before showing her where the insect spray was in the laundry room. They didn’t bother Emma, as long as they could be washed off of what she was eating, and they didn’t scare her nearly as much as palmetto bugs.

She spent a little time reading before the sun was high enough to warm up the pool. The water was perfect, even though she wondered if she was going to spend every day smelling like chlorine. At lunchtime, she drove the golf cart into town and picked up groceries, laughing a little at the different products and snapping pictures of things to show to her friends back home. 

She tried not to look for Killian. 

She tried very hard not to look around every face and wonder where he was staying, if he was staying in town, hoping to see him again before the evening.  
Emma made her own lunch, then threw on a swimsuit and sundress and walked down to the beach. The travel sites she went to all recommended this beach, because it was public access and the water was nice and locals and tourists alike gave it good reviews. It wasn’t as highly sought-after as Natadola or any of the crystal clear white-sand beaches, but for a single woman on a budget, it wasn’t bad. 

So she bathed in the sea, letting target fish swim around her legs, picking up sand dollars and clamshells from the beach and tossing them back out into the surf. The tide ripped the sand from the shore, and Emma found herself caught up in the aggressive push and pull of it. Of course, the universe wouldn’t deposit her on a soft, quiet beach with lapping waves. Instead, it gave her something almost violent, unpredictable, with the wind cold against her skin after swimming in the warm water. It felt like a metaphor for her life. 

The salt and wind from the beach left her feeling sticky and raw from head to toe, so she walked back to the villa and ran a warm bath. It was still light out, and while she waited for the water to fill the enormous tub, she knocked the sand out of her shoes in the back yard and hung up her second towel for the day on the line in the laundry room. 

She stepped into the bath, admiring the stone tiles around her, and soaked in soap smelling of flowers she couldn’t yet name, feeling decadent and exotic and wholly unlike the woman who flew out of Boston just a few days prior. The island was still new, exciting, even if it was a calm, slow place. She wasn’t used to having days to herself with no social media or access to the outside world. She had wi-fi, but she promised herself she wouldn’t peek in on everyone and take time for herself. 

So, when she met Killian later at the restaurant, she felt nothing but gratitude for the opportunity he presented, instead of anxiety over the complication. 

“So, what did you do today?” She asked as they sat down at a table inside the restaurant. She wanted to talk to him, and the bar looked a little too busy for that. 

He licked his lips, looking up from the menu. “I’m moored in the strait. I slept in, ate a large repast, and went diving.”

“You go scuba diving?”

“Some of the best scuba diving in the world is nestled between our Viti Levu and the island of Beqa,” he said matter-of-factly, sounding like a sexy tour guide for the island they were on. He even pronounced Beqa like the locals: _benga_. It rolled off of his tongue and onto his lips like pornography. She couldn’t stop staring.

She couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss. 

“I don’t know the first thing about scuba diving.”

He squinted. “It isn’t too difficult, but you do need a course on how to use the equipment.” He reached over and bopped her nose with his index finger. “It’s a shame you don’t. We could go out one day together.”

She grabbed his hand and rubbed her fingers over his knuckles. “We could do other things together.”

He pursed his lips. “Snorkeling doesn’t require much instruction, and I’ve got gear on the boat.”

She tittered. “Trying to get me out on your ship, Jones?”

“Something like that.”

Their food arrived, and she watched him eat. She wasn’t a date kind of woman. She liked to pick them up in bars, go back to their place, scratch an itch, and go home. But here, she just might decide to be a different Emma altogether. She wanted to know him, if only for a little while. She wanted him to know her, if only in this place. 

_Who was this woman she became here, and would she even recognize herself when she got back home?_

 

_Now_

The phone at Emma’s desk rings nonstop for the first two days back at work, and jet lag sucks, and she overuses melatonin and coffee and ibuprofen in a desperate attempt to get back on track because she only has personal days left until July, and she cannot fall asleep on the job, and she was too eager to start her vacation to account for the time she needs now to recuperate. 

She can work from home, but her apartment hasn’t felt like home for the past few days. She’s supposed to meet Mary-Margaret for lunch, but nothing seems to feel right. The food is too bland. The sun is too weak, setting before she even leaves the office behind the buildings in the city. The people are too rude. 

She feels different, like Boston stayed in place and she moved on to some new knowledge and a new place and she does not feel at home here.

Mary-Margaret notices immediately. 

“Are you okay?”

Emma takes a bite of her cheeseburger, the only thing on the menu that felt appealing, and she knows it’s comfort food and her jeans will probably feel too tight by next week and that’ll have her going to the gym which will probably finally improve her mood, but she doesn’t want to. 

“I’m fine,” she mumbles around a mouthful of food.

She feels like the world owes her a little petulance for making a wonderful place so far out of reach, for making it eighteen degrees outside Fahrenheit and she doesn’t want winter. She wants summer. And sand. And salt water so clear she can see twenty feet below her. 

And Killian. 

_Killian isn’t an ocean away._

Mary-Margaret is staring at her.

“Did something happen at work?” She wipes her hands on her napkin. “You can tell me vaguely what’s up. I mean, I know I don’t have a security clearance. I just can’t believe you’re not gushing over your vacation or showing me hundreds of pictures right now. “ 

“It was an amazing vacation. More than I ever could have dreamed.” And she can’t do this right now. She’s too emotional, too tired, too caught up in memories and the scent of the island every time she opens up her closet because her bag is still half-unpacked on the floor, and she still hasn’t opened up the very open wound that’s still sitting on her kitchen table. 

She doesn’t mean for the tears to start falling.

Mary-Margaret is looking down into the gift bag between them, plucking out a pretty seashell and a shirt for Leo that’s probably three sizes too big but that’s all Emma could find for him and you do not come home from vacation without getting something for your godchild and –

“Emma.” Mary-Margaret is staring at her, gifts still in her hands in the air. “What’s wrong, honey? This seems like more than just post-vacation blues.”

She swipes the tears away from her face and sniffs. “It was just supposed to be a one-time thing.”

Mary-Margaret’s eyes are still wide, concern on her face as she gently places everything back in the bag. “What was?”

“I met someone in Fiji.”

Mary-Margaret gasps. 

“I didn’t want you to worry, so I didn’t tell you about him.”

Mary-Margaret nods slowly. “I think you should tell me _all_ about him.”

 

_The Beach_

Killian took Emma home the next night. 

She woke up in his arms the next morning, sore and lush, feeling calm and peaceful about a morning after for the first time in years.

“You are so bloody beautiful, Emma.” 

His lips found the side of her neck and worked their way down. 

It wasn’t a bad way to wake up. He wasn’t a bad lover to wake up to. Just the opposite, in fact. Killian Jones was a very generous lover, and he proved it all morning.

She told herself she wouldn’t get attached. 

They didn’t talk about it. 

Instead, they talked about everything else. They talked about his time in the Coast Guard, and the family inheritance he squandered on an old lighthouse. They talked about his brother who lived in England and was a retired Royal Navy captain. He visited every summer with his wife and kids. 

They didn’t talk about their painful pasts. She saw the ghosts in his eyes when she ran her hand down his injured arm. He saw the clench in her jaw whenever she talked about growing up, and she saw his when she asked about his parents. They didn’t need to speak of old hurts to know they had them, or feel connected by them. In many ways, it was the only space between them. 

They spent the day swimming in her pool, and Killian finally knocked the pawpaw out of the tree with a stick. He saved her when a palmetto bug skittered into the living room. 

That night, they opted to stay in instead of eat out, grilling dinner and drinking Australian wine while watching the sunset. 

The next morning, he took her out to the boat. 

“I thought it would just be a little thing!” Emma gaped. 

Killian just laughed. The sailboat was a hybrid with an engine assist. Emma climbed aboard and looked around. 

“If you think this is impressive, you should see my boat back home.”

She averted her eyes, hidden by sunglasses. 

“Yeah,” she said noncommittally. 

They spent the day on the water, Killian showing her the ins and outs and how-to’s of sailing, med-mooring them close to the sandbar so they could swim in the shallow water. 

“There are no sharks in here, right?” Emma’s eyes were wide.

“Just me, I think, but I make no promises.” He held up his stump and jumped off of the ladder. 

Later, they sat on the deck and watched the sunset, Killian playing with the straps of Emma’s bikini while she licked salt from his neck. The stars came out and they watched those, too, Killian pointing out the different places of the constellations in the South Pacific. 

She couldn’t see the same stars at home. Here, on a boat in the ocean in another part of the world, she felt more safe than she’d ever felt anywhere. She felt more connected to these stars than she felt to her own self. 

So, she let go. And she took Killian with her on the freefall.

 

_The Snow_

Mary-Margaret’s mouth is still half-open.

“Say something.”

“Well, that makes sense.” She reaches into her purse and unearths a wad of tissues and hands them to Emma.

She takes them and blows her nose. “What makes sense?”

“You’ve always been more of a one-on-one kind of person.” She takes a deep breath. “So, I think that was what it was with him. You said yourself that you felt an instant attraction and connection with him, so he was your person. He was your vacation from your life of one-nighters and being closed-off to love.”

“I am not closed off to love.” Emma swipes at her nose angrily.

“No, you’re not, Emma.” Her eyes are wide again, sympathetic. “But you push people away because you’re afraid to open yourself up and let people love you.”

Emma nods. “Yeah. Killian said something similar the last few days we were there.”

“Really? Just out of the blue?”

She shook her head. “Not like that. We fought that day.”

 

_Summer_

The time went by fast, each day spent exploring the island. They spent an afternoon in Suva, shopping for gifts back home. They drove up to Lautoka and toured around. Their last few days together edged close. Killian was leaving for Maine the day after Emma left for Boston, but he had to take the boat back to his friend. 

They were sitting on the beach of Yanuca island, playing with dried coral and admiring the crystal clear blue water. They spent the morning snorkeling, Emma pointing at the different kinds of coral and reef fish she had only ever seen on the discovery channel. She found snorkeling equal parts frustrating and fun. She couldn’t dive very deep, so she had to stay in the shallower part of the lagoon, and every time she turned her head, she got a mouth full of seawater. 

The villagers were making them lovo fish, cooked in an underground oven. Emma could hear them singing and playing guitars behind her. She was relaxed from drinking kava and eating fresh coconut. The local boys would pull out a rusty machete and hack into the coconuts for meat or water. It was amazing to Emma. Most teenage boys in the U.S. barely knew how to use a pocket knife. 

Killian was looking down at a bracelet Emma had purchased for him from the villagers. It was braided leather with a shell carving of a sea turtle. For all of their time spent on the water, they hadn’t seen any. Nor sharks, for that matter. 

“Come with me,” he said.

“Where?” She giggled. “We’ve been island hopping for the last few days.”

“To my friend’s place up in the Yasawas. Robin and Regina. You’d love them.” He said it fast, like he was expecting an interruption. “I can take the boat back early.”

Emma hedged. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

He shook his head and ran his finger over a shell. “I overstepped.”

“Killian, do you actually think this is going to work?”

His blue eyes were jaded as they met hers. “I’d like for it to.”

“I –“ 

“You’re afraid.” Emma looked away from him. It hurt. “You’re afraid to open yourself up to more than just an affair and –“

“I was on my own before I met you, Killian.” Saying his name felt like knives on her tongue. 

“Aye, and I suspect you’ve been on your own for a long time, but sooner or later, you’re gonna have to trust someone.” His voice was quiet, no malice, just empathy.

“Let me guess. You?”

“You trusted me for the past few weeks, we’ve been all over these islands together.” 

He was right. She knew he was right. 

She pleaded, “Can we just enjoy the rest of this vacation together and not make things complicated?”

Killian licked his lips and nodded, looking straight ahead. “Lunch is ready.”

That night, Killian went out into town after dropping Emma off at her house. 

She didn’t expect him to come back. 

When she saw the headlights approaching the gate, she walked over to the front door. 

He was carrying a bag. He didn’t look at her as he walked past. He set it down on the counter. 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

“It’s okay.” She wanted to say she was sorry, too. She wanted to tell him so much, but she was so confused. She didn’t want to confuse him, too. 

He pulled a bottle out of the bag. “I brought us a nightcap. I get a bottle every time I come here to take home, but I didn’t this time. I thought I’d just share it with you instead.”

“You’re not taking any home with you?”

“I’ll leave it here with you.” _I’ll leave what’s happened between us here and not ask for more._

It was a bottle of the best rum liqueur Emma had ever tasted. It was sweet and delicious, a perfect blend of sugar and coconut. 

He didn’t speak much, just sat with her and caressed her tan skin. Finally, he walked over to the back door and onto the deck. He turned around and beckoned her with his hand. She followed.

“Let’s get in the water.”

They shed their clothes and swam in the moonless night, frangipani wafting over them as they made love in the water. 

In the morning, Emma woke early to find him folding the laundry they hung on the line a few days before. 

“Always a military man, with your crisp corners.” She kept it light, her emotions heavy in the space between them. 

He smiled. It didn’t meet his eyes. 

He had his clothes in his hand, and walked over to where his backpack lay open on the couch. 

He was leaving. 

“I forgot to take a picture of your bracelet.” Emma walked into the bedroom and grabbed her phone from the charger. She snapped a picture of his hand holding hers.

He held her in the driveway. “I left my old Storybrooke sweatshirt with your clothes. It’ll be cold in Boston when you land.”

He kissed her forehead before letting her go and walking backwards to the car. 

“Goodbye, Emma.”

“Goodbye, Killian.”

She couldn't want this anymore. Couldn't want it when she couldn't keep it past this time and place. Real life didn't include romances like this, not for her. 

She spent the next day shopping in town, spending the last of her vacation cash on a new pareo and a kitschy bula shirt for David. Before she could think better of it, she made one last stop at the grocery store for a few special items, and with the help of a few cashiers, she taped up her packages to get them ready for a flight across the Pacific Ocean.

She packed that night, taking one last bath surrounded by candles, resolving that she was not going to think of Killian Jones until she was safely back in Boston and could put some space between herself and the place that meant so much to her. 

Belle, the AirBnB host, came to the house to take the keys back the following morning. It was an informal way of checking out. Emma signed the guest book with her name and Killian’s, telling the host, _We had a lovely time in your beautiful home._

They had. They most certainly had.

Belle walked up to the house and waved, her skin so pale next to Emma’s.

Emma handed her the box of truffles and Belle hugged her tight.

“Ohhhhh, come back to our little island soon, Emma.” 

Emma started to cry. She had really enjoyed the people and the culture and the home. 

“I will try.” She wished for Killian’s kind of money that enabled him to travel here every few years. 

She hired a car for the trip to the airport, talking to the driver about her vacation and the places she’d seen and how much she loved his country. She didn’t hesitate to wave out of the window and call out, “Bula!” to the people they passed on the road. She wanted to hold onto Fiji as long as she could before the real world (or, just the Western world) came crashing back in. 

 

_Winter_

Emma stares at the tightly wrapped packages on her kitchen table. Carefully, she cuts the tape around the plastic wrap and cardboard, exposing the label for the bottle of rum liqueur she and Killian drank in Fiji. She’s got two bottles: one for herself and one for him. 

She originally planned to bring them home and ship one to him. She can easily look him up and find his address. He owns a lighthouse, for crying out loud. Those aren’t exactly inconspicuous. Instead, she thinks it might be better to take the bottle in person. So, she makes another plan to leave town, this time for a weekend after work. She doesn’t want to be presumptuous, so she makes a reservation at a real Bed and Breakfast in Storybrooke online. 

Unfortunately, the weather has other plans. 

An enormous blizzard hits Boston and they’re snowed in. In fact, the snow and flooding are so bad the entire eastern seaboard is practically a national emergency. Even though her apartment is a third-floor walkup, they’re still evacuated and she’s back to living out of a suitcase while crashing with friends in a drier part of the city. 

She spends the next week looking up pictures and news articles about the Maine coast while stranded in Mary-Margaret’s guest bedroom, hoping Killian is okay and he hasn’t frozen to death in his old lighthouse. It’s pretty remote, from the pictures (and lovely and quaint and she can just picture him there). She’s hoping he’s had someone out there to check on him. 

Which is why she decides, once again, to throw all caution to the wind as soon as there’s a break in the weather, and drive up to Maine the following weekend, with no hotel reservation, the bottle of rum snug in her small suitcase in the backseat of her car, and a dashing rapscallion on her mind. 

Her car gets stuck in the long driveway to his house – _lighthouse._

She trudges through with her scarf wrapped around her face and neck, mittens clutching the bottle of rum, hoping to God or Zeus or whoever that he’s actually home because she has no idea how she’s gonna get her car out of the enormous snowbank she just plowed herself into. The wind is whipping snow up into her eyes, the snow brutally cutting into her face as it blows from all directions. In many ways, it’s like the beach in Fiji she went to – aggressive and fierce, unforgiving and relentless to claim every bit of the shore for the sea. 

She knocks on the door, half certain she’ll have to break in if he’s not here, because it’s either that or she’ll freeze to death. She sees the ocean in the distance over the rocks, the waves battering against them in fury. It’s breathtaking and awesome and she misses the moment the door opens with a muffled, “Swan?”

Suddenly, she whips her head back and she sees him. He’s standing in the doorway, squinting against the onslaught of snow and ice, with his hand up over his face. He’s wearing a hooded sweatshirt and pajama pants. 

Emma smiles in relief, though he can’t see it. God, he looks so good. She holds up the bottle of rum. 

“Can I come in?”

He backs up into the house and puts his hand down, gesturing with a smile. “Sure.”

They spend the entire weekend holed up in the house in front of the woodburning stove, drinking hot chocolate with rum and cinnamon, letting it snow outside around them.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, let me know if you guys want me to write a second part to this at the lighthouse. I'm trying to suss out interest because I have some ideas. Thanks for reading!
> 
> If you've never been to Fiji, please go. It's every bit as wonderful as Emma described. The people are the best people in the world, there's little stress, and it's so unbelievably beautiful. And that lovely villa? Only $100 USD a night. AirBnB is the only way to go.


End file.
